Date: 4 Jan 2003. Saturday. Around noon.

Red Mill Apartments #219

The small, one-bedroom apartment is somewhat sparcely furnished, but has a
comfortable, homey look to it. A greenish-gray couch, obviously
secondhand, holds court in the main room, accompanied by a low coffee
table. Across from it sits a squat black entertainment cabinet and upon
that sits a rather large television; anyone sitting on the couch has an
excellent view of the screen. A bookcase stands alongside one wall, its
shelves holding a stereo, a clock, various CDs, but very few actual books
-- unless you count the paperbacks of various fiction and non-fiction
subjects on the bottom shelf. The carpet's a neutral shade of tan and
covers whatever floor doesn't belong to the kitchenette or the bathroom;
the walls are a shade lighter and on them are a few Van Gogh prints.

The kitchenette is separated from the main room via a stomach-level
counter and past it, a very short section of what might be called a
hallway leads to the bathroom, the bedroom, and a closet. Though the place
is kept fairly clean, cockroaches are a constant presence and go about
unmolested by traps, sprays, or other poisons. In fact, a small plate of
fresh canned cat food sits in a corner near the kitchenette, apparantly
just for the benefit of these insects.

Holiday decorations are still set up -- a Christmas tree complete with
tinsel and colored, blinking lights and a 'Happy New Year!' banner hang
from the ceiling above it. The roaches have their own tiny tree as well.

Rina knocks a little after noon, and waits chewing on her lower lip. She
is out of the Armani and back to her more usual street-frayed attire;
boot-cut jeans ragged at the hems and almost dragging by the heels of her
biker boots. The t-shirt is a grey baby tee bearing the stenciled legend:
"Chicago: love it, or get the fuck out," with a stylized handgun under the
city's name. Her hair is shorter. Much shorter, almost shockingly so after
the past year or two of shaggy and unkempt.

Her black-brown hair is left just long enough in the front to fall almost
into her eyes; the butch cut tapers to an army-short buzz at the sides and
back, hardly more than a velvet fuzz covering the nape of her neck.

Fortunately, it's Salem who answers the door, Salem at his most casual, in
black sweatpants and matching t-shirt, his hair unbound and his feet bare.
His eyes still have that tired, shadowed look, but he smiles faintly when
he sees her. "Rina. Hello." The half-blind gaze takes her in, head to toe,
and then he steps aside to let her enter. "Come in."

Puccini's on the stereo, and there's a glass of water on the coffee table
along with a book about Tunnel Rat squads in Vietnam.

One corner of her mouth quirks up in a wistful, worried half-smile. "We
oughta see about fixing that sleep thing," she murmurs.

She steps inside, then, one hand coming up to rub at the back of her
head--a slight unaccustomed moment in the gesture, when her fingers find
nothing to hold.

Salem closes the door behind her, still watching her. "It's nothing. I'm
used to it." He turns the latch, then gestures her toward the couch. "Can
I get you a drink?"

Rina shakes her head swiftly, glancing around with an almost
expressionless face. When she looks back to him, though, the mask softens
away, the barest hint of a smile creasing the corners of her eyes. "Nah. I
just-- wanted t'see if there was anything I oughta pick up. For the kid."

"Cat. Right." Salem drags fingers back through his hair, a small flicker
of guilt passing across his eyes. "One moment." He heads into the bedroom,
stepping aside once to avoid a particularly large cockroach. The door's
left open as he rummages through the bedroom closet.

Rina's expression turns guarded. "Hey... whoa. What happened? You have a
fight with /him/, too?"

Salem straightens up, holding a small blue duffel bag which doesn't look
like it holds more than a single change of clothes. "Fight? No. But he
was, mm, rather upset when _we_ did." He drops it onto the neatly-made
twin-sized bed and then reaches up onto the top shelf inside the closet to
take down a pair of library books.

Rina winces a little, and leans against the edge of the doorway, watching
him with veiled eyes. "I'll make sure and apologize."

Salem nods, not quite looking her way. He flips one of the two books to
the back cover and looks rueful. "Overdue," he mumbles, and puts it and
the other book into the duffle bag. There's still room left, mute
testimony as to how little Cat actually owns.

"I'll stop by there and renew it," Rina murmurs. "I think I owe them money
anyway. Wouldn't do to have Bertha come after me to break my kneecaps."
She watches him steadily, the dark eyes like a tangible weight.

Salem zips up the bag and lifts it from the bed. As he turns back, he
meets her eyes and hesitates. "...What?"

Rina catches her lower lip between her teeth; that dark gaze searches his.
"Are we..." A swallow, then. "Are we good, now?"

"I hope so," he replies, one corner of his mouth quirking upward. He
crosses the short distance between them, stopping just within arm's length
to offer her the duffle bag.

Rina nods carefully in answer, and takes the duffle, shouldering it
easily. Her gaze strays from his with the movement, and then returns,
intent and sober. "Get some sleep, aright?"

The Walker's slight, crooked half-smile turns a mite rueful. "I'll try.
Say hello to Cat for me."

Rina nods, a faint smile coming to her lips. "I'll do that." Turning, she
ducks her head and heads for the door.

Salem walks her to the door, of course, and lingers at it to watch her
head back down the hallway toward the stairs. Only when she's out of sight
does he go back into the apartment.

She only looks back to him once, a glance over her shoulder and a quick,
fragile ghost of a smile. Then she ducks her head again, and jogs down the
stairs.